


Sufficient Unto the Day

by FluffyBeaumont



Series: Sufficiency [1]
Category: Star Trek TOS - Fandom, Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Protective Leonard "Bones" McCoy, Top Leonard "Bones" McCoy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-23
Updated: 2020-02-23
Packaged: 2021-02-27 22:27:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,466
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22853221
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FluffyBeaumont/pseuds/FluffyBeaumont
Summary: Sequel to "Enough": When a young Vulcan falls victim to the epidemic threatening the Enterprise, Spock tries to find a cure in time to save him. His failure hits him harder than anyone expected, and the depth of his emotional reaction threatens to destroy him.
Relationships: Leonard "Bones" McCoy/Spock
Series: Sufficiency [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1645168
Comments: 2
Kudos: 31





	Sufficient Unto the Day

**Author's Note:**

> Gareltonin doesn't exist.

"Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof." (Matthew 6:34)

”S’toya is now affected.” Spock’s voice seemed to come from a long way off, even though he was standing in the doorway of Leonard McCoy’s office. The attitude of his body was relaxed, almost casual, or at least as casual as Spock ever got, but his arms, held in front of his torso, were taut with tension and his hands were clenched into fists. “I fear the outcome will be…unfortunate.”

”How long since he started showing symptoms?” McCoy asked, and, “What time is it?”

”Two point three hours,” Spock replied. “It is twenty-three hundred hours.”

Not good, McCoy thought grimly. For reasons known only to the virus, those patients who showed symptoms later in the evening tended to have a harder time with the illness. Thus far, everyone who’d died had manifested the virus after 17:00. “I’ll look in on him,” he said. He got up from the desk. “Spock—” He stopped. There was nothing reassuring he could say, and he wasn’t about to lie, not to Spock of all people. They’d shared certain intimacies, opening themselves to each other in an entirely new way, loving each other, goddammit, and that meant something. He went to where Spock was and laid a hand on his shoulder. If he’d been someone else – say, if he’d been Jim – McCoy would touch his cheek, lean in to kiss him, but Spock’s habitual reserve and air of formality prevented that. He wasn’t even sure where he stood with Spock. Vulcans mated for life, so did that mean they were married now? Was he Spock’s _husband_? Did that word even have meaning for the Vulcan, the way it would for McCoy? “I’m so sorry.” _I’m so sorry, darlin’, sweetheart, baby, goddammit I hate that this is happenin’ to you._ He could imagine Spock’s expression if he said something like that, in his Georgian drawl. Spock would think he was insane, probably. But S’toya was his protegee, a bright young Vulcan with a keen scientific mind. Surely he was worried.

”There is no need, doctor. I am quite unaffected.”

 _You keep telling yourself that, Spock._ “You want me to look in on him?” McCoy asked. He squeezed Spock’s shoulder, feeling the tightness of the muscle underneath, then let go.

”Nurse Chapel is currently on-shift in sickbay,” Spock said. “She will tend to him. I am working on a cure that I hope will succeed. I have begun sequencing the viral DNA. If my hypothesis is correct, I can synthesize a vaccine by replacing the infectious chromosomal sectors with harmless ‘filler’.”

”So you’re gonna force the little bastard to shoot blanks?” McCoy asked. “Is that it?”

Spock’s eyebrow rose and fell. “An inelegant metaphor but yes, doctor, that is what I am hoping to accomplish.”

”Spock, you do know hope is an emotional condition.” McCoy couldn’t help smirking.

”I…enjoyed last night,” Spock said quietly. He suddenly couldn’t look Leonard in the eye.

”Yeah,” McCoy said, his grin broadening, “I got that impression by the sounds you were making.” They’d made love out of McCoy’s own desperate need to be held in somebody’s arms, but what he’d assumed was as a basic physical encounter had turned into something else entirely. He’d known for years that he was attracted to Spock, almost from the first moment they’d met, but in recent years and months and days, the quiet flame he’d nurtured in his heart had flared into vibrant life, surprising and unsettling him. He could love Spock, long-term and forever. He didn’t know whether to be glad or horrified. 

”You were quite vocal as well,” Spock said, “with an enthusiasm I found most unexpected.” He reached out and laid a hand on McCoy’s wrist. “I must continue my work on the vaccine. Perhaps we might take nourishment later.”

 _Perhaps we might take each other later,_ McCoy thought, and was briefly ashamed of himself. “I’d like that.”

Then Spock was gone, and McCoy went back to his desk, immersed himself in work so that the hours passed by him like a distant river.

It was nearly two the next morning when McCoy rose from his desk. The staff rota could have waited, but he’d rather get it done and over with, and this way the duty roster for the next three weeks was set. He badly wanted sleep, but his overwork left him with a surfeit of nervous energy that hummed along his nerves like trapped electricity. He got a cold drink of water from the replicator and drank it slowly, then another. He wandered into sickbay, which was silent now during Delta shift, the lights dimmed low to emulate the Terran night. The young Vulcan S’toya lay supine on one of the beds, his slender body covered with a thermal blanket, one of many plague victims whose unbreakable coma so closely resembled death. McCoy checked the readout over the head of the biobed. S’toya’s vitals were all within the normal range for Vulcans, but his neurochemicals were all over the map. Gareltonin, a neurotransmitter roughly analogous to human serotonin, was dangerously elevated; McCoy’s preliminary investigation into the disease suggested this might be the reason for the coma. So far, none of the patients who’d slipped into coma had ever emerged from their profound unconsciousness. All of them had gone unprotesting into death.

McCoy sighed, watching the young man’s empty face. He was handsome – no, more than merely handsome, he was beautiful – and his elegant eyebrows and fine features reminded McCoy of Spock. “You gotta get better, kid,” he murmured, patting the young man’s hand. “Come on, now, wake up.”

He left sickbay and headed towards his quarters, passing one of the auxiliary medical labs on the way. Spock was sitting at one of the workstations, gazing down into a microscope, his back to McCoy. The exhausted slope of his shoulders betrayed his physical weariness. McCoy stepped inside and laid a hand against his back. “You’re too tired for this,” he said quietly. “I know you’re far superior to us humans, but even Vulcans need a rest.”

”I cannot leave this, doctor.” Spock leaned back into the curve of McCoy’s arm for a moment. “As much as I would like to join you, I must continue the work.”

”Spock, I can order you off duty if I think you’re compromised,” McCoy pointed out. “Now stop being such a stubborn son of a bitch and come to bed.”

Spock turned to face him fully. “Please, doctor…Leonard…this is important.” He wasn’t quite pleading, but it was damn close. “You know I don’t experience fatigue the way a human might. I can go for some time before I require rest.”

It was true that Vulcan stamina outstripped human any day, but Spock had been working for thirty-six hours straight, so this was bullshit. “You need rest now.” McCoy tugged at his arm, but it was like trying to tow a Galaxy-class starship. “Spock, I am ordering you—“

The Vulcan’s dark eyes blazed with fury. “ _Leave me,_ doctor! I will rest when I am ready.” As quickly as it had flared up, the emotional storm was gone, leaving an impassive Spock in its place. “I will rest,” he repeated. “I give you my solemn word.” He sighed. “And now you are hurt.”

”Oh no, I’m not hurt.” The carefree tenor of his voice was forced. He was sure Spock could hear it. “Suit yourself, Mr. Spock. I don’t give a sweet goddamn.”

He went into his quarters and engaged the door lock, just in case Spock came looking, then, feeling petulant and silly, his disengaged it. He stripped off his clothes and took a sonic shower, letting the bouncing sound waves clear the anger and frustration from his skin, then poured himself a double bourbon when he got out. He tried to read a book he’d borrowed from Jim, some 20th century spy novel, but found the male protagonist so ridiculously unkillable that he put it aside. Finally he crawled into bed and, concentrating resolutely on nothing, fell asleep.

His dreams were full of winding dark passageways ending in locked doors and he woke unrefreshed several hours later. He rose wearily and ordered strong black coffee from the replicator. He drank it down and then ordered another. The coffee woke him up enough for him to wash and dress. He was eager to get to sickbay and see how the coma victims had fared through the night.

Christine Chapel met him at the door, her expression grave. They’d known each other long enough that he didn’t even have to ask what had happened. “Which one?”

”The young Vulcan, S’toya.” She glanced back over her shoulder. “Mr. Spock is with him now.”

(to be continued…)


End file.
